


these stars ought to be ours

by prettyshiroic (kcgane)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Stargazing, a moment of stasis for them, for sheith positivity week, soft and tender tm, the prompt stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 23:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcgane/pseuds/prettyshiroic
Summary: We used to watch the stars at the garrison. Ha. Do you remember? You’d tell me the stories of the constellations, fingers brushing mine when we shuffled a little too far into each other. Sometimes the stories you told made me want to believe in all sorts of stupid things that couldn’t possibly be real.Now we sit here, beneath new stars. I look to you and smile weakly, can’t help but smile even if it feels uneven and weighted on my face. Feels like we’re dangling too far over the edge and the universe might just push us off for its own amusement. Or something. Watch us fall in different directions, cascade across galaxies to find each other. Again.Anyway. I’m looking at you and I’m smiling.





	these stars ought to be ours

**Author's Note:**

> For sheith positivity week! Day 2: Sun/Stars. I picked stars.

We sit here, beneath the stars. On some planet we stopped off at for supplies, with a name nobody can pronounce. Here we sit, two silver moons in a purple sky. You look up and frown, say you don’t know any of these constellations. All these nameless stars, all these nameless places. Once you did. Now, you don’t know a single thing about them or what they’re called.

We used to watch the stars at the garrison. Ha. Do you remember? You’d tell me the stories of the constellations, fingers brushing mine when we shuffled a little too far into each other. Sometimes the stories you told made me want to believe in all sorts of stupid things that couldn’t _possibly_ be real.

Now we sit here, beneath new stars. I look to you and smile weakly, _can’t help but smile_ even if it feels uneven and weighted on my face _._ Feels like we’re dangling too far over the edge and the universe might just push us off for its own amusement. Or something. Watch us fall in different directions, cascade across galaxies to find each other. Again.

Anyway. I’m looking at you and I’m smiling.

Does it really matter?

No.

It doesn't matter what these constellations are called. It doesn't matter what they are, what we are or where or _how_ and just for a second I'll let myself believe that's true because just for a second we're _here_. We're here under the same stars. And the last time that happened the gold they made from your honest heart was setting on a horizon I couldn't reach.

I was bronze, then. Bronze that wanted to be iron, tried to be steel. I wanted to step out your shadow and make silhouettes with you on the sand in the desert. But you were gone, not even a mirage I could conjure. Or one I wanted to because I'd never willingly distort your image like they did.

Fallen idol. Tragic hero. Atlas.

They took the echoes of your name, and dared piece it back together with a story that wasn't yours. They stripped the walls of those ridiculous recruitment posters we used to make fun of, the ones with that awkward photoshoot you were embarrassed to sit through. They even had the _audacity_ to ask me to replace you once. Ha. Prodigy Pilot mark two, riddled with grief and _enough_ grief to become an example for everyone else.

Yeah. Right.

It’s pretty funny now. Maybe we’d laugh about it, like we laughed over those cheesy posters. But... it wasn’t funny back then. It was all nothing back then - back when you were gone.

Because you were gone.

You and everything you were was plucked from my trembling hands. I had no warning. I was powerless against it all. One day you were up there making history, the next you were making tragedies.

You were lost in the stars, _those stars_ . The ones I looked at every night in the desert, the ones I tried to chart out that had stories you loved. You were lost in those stars, and you might have fell from them but _they took you away first._

So I’m _glad_ those stars aren’t here now. Real glad, actually. It means you’re no longer gone with them. It means you’re here, _we’re here_ . And that’s good. That’s everything I want in this universe. I want to tell you that. Not sure how yet. I’m no brilliant wordsmith or whatever. But everything I say, I say because I commit myself to the words. These words like so many have always been yours. You have to know that.  _Do you know that?_

“We - Shiro,” I say. I take a shaky breath, steady myself. _Patience yields focus._ “Look, Shiro -”

That’s what I say, and that’s what catches your attention. Not that your warm focus ever left my side. Despite the stars above, I’ve caught you sneaking glances. Not that I’m any better. And I think you know just as much as I do that we’ve both been fooling ourselves. We chase down the same thing at highspeeds and it’s well within our grasp but still - we never catch it. We let it outrun us, lingering in the smoke.

We never let ourselves _win_ with this _._

Worse, we fallback and accept a defeat that was never declared. We refuse to bow in every other situation, besides this one. You fallback into a terrible darkness that seizes you tight, whereas I veer off course through the cracks in my own voice.

But that was under different stars, _those stars._

These are new stars.

“We’ll make our own stories for the stars.” I finally say, and I’m not talking about Voltron or the mission or _everything_ we do out here. I’m talking about you and me. I don't know if you really get that. I want to elaborate but my lips are pressed tight, my eyes fixed on these nameless constellations. One looks like a sword, the one I’ll brandish for the universe and you _always for you._

Your fingers brush mine, and then our hands become magnetised. You say you like that idea when you turn to me. Then you laugh, a sound that sparks a mighty storm in my chest. Oh. You’re not talking about Voltron either. Our eyes find each other in the hushed quiet night. Silvery eyes. Because you’ve always been the most beautiful kind of silver, never the gold they smeared across the TV, never the gold they _forged_ and pushed into moulds shaped like trophies _._

We sit here under the stars, silver and bronze. These new stars have stories waiting for us to write. And as our lips gently slip into orbit, I wonder:

_Just what the hell have we been waiting for._

**Author's Note:**

> Never done first person before it was really interesting and fun to write. Hope you enjoyed 8)


End file.
